


The Real Crime

by Julibean19



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Chastity Device, Crossdressing Stiles Stilinski, Crying Stiles, Daddy Kink, Feminization, Happy Ending, Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Makeup, Punishment, Spanking, Stockings, Sugar Baby Stiles, Sugar Daddy Peter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-20
Updated: 2016-12-20
Packaged: 2018-09-09 20:57:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8911696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Julibean19/pseuds/Julibean19
Summary: "He knew he shouldn’t have.  Daddy said the credit card was only for emergencies, but when Stiles had seen it, dripping with Swarovski crystals, he hadn’t been able to stop himself from clicking 'add to cart.'  Usually, Daddy liked to pick out all his jewelry, but Stiles knew he would like this."





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lovehatress](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lovehatress/gifts).



> This is a Steter Secret Santa gift for [Lovehatress](http://nature-lestos.tumblr.com/) who prompted: "Dom/sub, collars and leashes, BDSM, non-sexual BDSM, Dom/Sub AU!, feminzation, sugar baby stiles, rich peter, spoiled stiles"
> 
> I hope you enjoy it, darling! Happy Holidays!
> 
> Special thanks to my unfailing beta, [CaptainVonChan](http://captainvonchan.tumblr.com/) for working quickly and expertly through all of my holiday challenges. Also thanks to [DenaCeleste](http://denaceleste.tumblr.com/) for helping me get my kinks in a row!

He was due home any minute, and Stiles was a nervous ball of energy.  Daddy had texted him, letting him know what time he should be home, and what he expected to find when he got there.  Stiles had set a beautiful piece of prime rib to roast in the oven a few hours ago, and then spent the intervening time preparing for his Daddy’s arrival.  

Stiles took his time in the shower, scrubbing every inch of skin with his jar of sandalwood scented sugar.  Shaving his legs was always a lengthy process, but Daddy loved the silky smooth feeling, so he made sure that his body was entirely bare, even his stomach and underarms.  He dressed carefully, choosing a woolen skirt with a herringbone pattern and a tight white button down that showed off his piercings where his nipples stood erect.  

He knew he shouldn’t have.  Daddy said the credit card was only for emergencies, but when Stiles had seen it, dripping with Swarovski crystals, he hadn’t been able to stop himself from clicking _add to cart_.  Usually, Daddy liked to pick out all his jewelry, but Stiles knew he would like this.  

With careful fingers, Stiles lifted the chain over his head and settled the large pendant at his throat.  He followed the lower two pieces to the ends, hooking them to his nipple rings, twisting and turning the crystal teardrops until they laid flat underneath his pecs.  Admiring the effect in the mirror, Stiles had been loathe to cover up with his button down, but Daddy liked him to look like a lady when he answered the door.  Play time was reserved for after his homecoming meal, until then he would behave like a proper Princess.  

After gently tousling his hair until it fell in wispy curls, Stiles applied his makeup.  Daddy said he was beautiful just as he was, but Stiles loved the way mascara brightened his honey-brown eyes.  It had taken him some time, but he’d finally mastered winged eyeliner.  He applied a metallic bronze shadow and then carefully traced his eyes with the black liquid.  

A heavy swipe of blush made his cheekbones stand out.  He angled the makeup across his face until it practically pointed at his gloss-covered lips.  Stiles pouted and blew a kiss at his reflection in the mirror, smirking when he finally got the perfect shade by mixing several tubes of Urban Decay together.  

Showing more patience than you might expect, Stiles paid special attention to his nails, filing them to perfect rounded edges and then painting them a deep purple.  He waited until his base color was completely dry before covering the surface in glitter gloss.  Daddy never said, but Stiles knew he liked seeing the sparkles against his cock when Stiles stroked him.

He could feel himself starting to get giddy. Making sure his growing erection was still tucked nicely inside his black lace panties, Stiles wrapped his garter belt around his hips and secured the row of eye hooks.  When his toes were dry, he inched a new pair of back seam thigh highs up his smooth legs and clipped them to his belt.  Checking the mirror again, he pushed and pulled at the stockings until the seam laid straight against the middle of his legs.  

Practically skipping to the walk-in closet, Stiles perused his shoe collection and settled on a classic pair of Alexander McQueen pumps.  They were nude, with a black lace overlay.  Daddy liked it when his heels matched his panties, and Stiles aimed to please.  

Having already left the wine out to breathe, Stiles went back to the kitchen to pour two glasses and light the candlesticks he had laid out on the table.  He took the meat out of the oven to rest and checked on the garlic mashed potatoes, which were still hot on the stove.  Everything was perfect.  Daddy had been gone for a week, a business trip that was only meant to last three days had dragged out to seven, and Stiles was feeling both horny and nervous.  

There was a rule about touching when Peter was away.  It was a simple rule.   _Don’t_.  There was to be no touching and no orgasms unless Daddy was home, and of course, if he allowed it.  It was _possible_ that Stiles hadn’t quite followed the rules, but it wasn’t exactly his fault that he thought Daddy was on his way home four days ago and had already started preparing himself.  It was so long ago, and Stiles had washed everything twice, nearly scrubbing himself raw to be sure.  

There was no way Daddy would be able to tell.

The doorbell rang.  It was part of their game.  Stiles checked his lip gloss in the mirror by the door as he sashayed forward.  “Who is it?” he called, knowing he wasn’t allowed to let strangers inside their home.  

“It’s me, beautiful,” Peter answered through the door.  Stiles could practically see his body language, exhausted, but cocky, leaning against the door frame with his forearm over his head, suit jacket rumpled from his travels.  “I can smell dinner through the door, and I’m starving.  Let me in?”

“Only if you mind your manners,” Stiles replied, polished fingernails poised over the deadbolt.

“Don’t I always?” Peter purred, voice rough, but still bright as he teased.

“Hardly ever,” Stiles said, but he unlocked the door anyway and pulled it open.  “But that’s half the fun.”

Peter _did_ look tired, but his eyes were still twinkling in the low candlelight.  “Look at you,” Peter said, wheeling his carry-on inside and dropping his briefcase on the floor.  He took Stiles’ hand and kissed his knuckles, eyebrows raising when he saw the glitter on his boyfriend’s nails.  “What did I do to deserve such a warm welcome?”

“You stayed away for a whole seven nights!” Stiles said, pouting and playfully slapping Peter’s shoulder.  “I could kill you!  We were supposed to go shopping on Wednesday!”

“I’m so sorry, darling,” Peter said, slipping his jacket off his shoulders.  Stiles took it immediately and hung it up in the hall closet with the rest of Peter’s dry cleaning.  “I’ll make it up to you, I promise.  How does a weekend at L’Ermitage and shopping on Rodeo Drive sound?”

“Passable, I suppose,” Stiles said petulantly, but pulled out Peter’s chair all the same.  He waited until the man was seated and stole a quick kiss before heading to the counter to carve the meat.  

“And if we make a special trip to Harry Winston’s?” Peter bargained, taking a small sip from his wine glass.  “I’d love to get you a new choker.”

Stiles smiled as he plated up some beef.  “Then I’d be very appreciative,” he said, adding some potatoes to Peter’s plate and then setting it down on the table.  

“It looks like you don’t need it,” Peter said, words clipped sharp when his eyes fell to the crystal necklace that sat like an expensive collar around Stiles' throat and dipped down below, to be covered by his crisp, white shirt.  “Where did you get that?”

“Do you like it?” Stiles asked, preening as he flicked open the top button of his shirt.  By Peter’s tone, he knew he was in trouble, but hoped he might be able to distract his Daddy with a bit of deliberate flirting.  

Closing his eyes, Stiles tilted his head back, elongating his neck and trailing a plum-colored fingernail down the silver chain around his throat, around the large crystal pendant, and lower, tracing the chain that ran below his chest over to one nipple.  “I know you have a thing for my piercings, and thought you’d appreciate them dripping in jewels.”  

“Are those stones real?” Peter asked, nodding toward the large teardrop-shaped pendant that lay between Stiles’ collarbones.  He took a delicate bite of prime rib and another small sip of wine, playing casual, but Stiles wasn’t fooled.  His Daddy was not pleased at all.

“They’re just Swarovski crystals,” Stiles said, pinching the edge of his shirt between two fingers and pulling until another button popped open.  “It wasn’t too expensive, I promise,” he teased, running a nail across the chain so the dripping line of crystals tinkled like a chandelier.  Stiles kept unbuttoning until his shirt fell open, exposing his nipples and the chains of teardrop crystals hanging from them.

“This is why you’re not allowed to use my credit card, Princess,” Peter said sharply, chastising his boyfriend.  “You don’t know what’s best.”  He pushed his chair away from the table, tapping one thigh with his palm until Stiles got up and perched on his lap, but not before swiping the back of his skirt up so the lace of his panties scraped along Peter’s dress pants.  “My baby deserves perfection.”

Stiles practically purred in Peter’s lap, wrapping his arms around the man’s neck and fluttering his long, painted eyelashes closed as he rocked downward.  “You’re so good to me, Daddy,” he whispered, arching his back and twisting his upper body until the crystals hanging from his nipple rings swung back and forth.  “I’m the luckiest girl in the world.”

“Not that lucky,” Peter growled, catching Stiles’ hips and stilling them.  “You’ve disobeyed, and you know what that means.”  Stiles’ breath caught.  He could feel Peter’s erection under his thigh, but knew he wouldn’t be able to touch it any time soon.  

“I have to be punished,” Stiles said slowly, a hitch of fear in his voice.  He always knew it was a possibility that he would get caught.  Unfortunately, the elation Stiles had felt when he’d bought the jewelry had clouded his better judgment.  Daddy didn’t punish him very often, but when he did, he really put his back into it.  His only hope was that the offense had been a minor one and wouldn’t warrant much pain.  

“It’s good that you know that now,” Daddy said, taking Stiles’ hands and pulling him off his lap.  “But you need to remember what happens when you disobey _before_ you do it, not after.  I’ll have to really make this one memorable, won’t I, Princess?”

“Yes, Daddy,” Stiles whispered, eyes on his shoes as Daddy led him to the couch.  Peter sat down first, and then patted his thigh with a stern look on his face.  Stiles knew what that look meant, and a shiver went down his spine.  He hesitated, and Peter’s expression grew darker as he patted his thigh again.  Reluctantly, Stiles stepped forward, heels muffled by the plush rug, and kneeled beside Peter.  In a long, well-practiced movement, Stiles laid himself out on Peter’s lap face down, arching his back like a stretching cat.  

“All the way down,” Peter ordered, pushing on Stiles’ lower back until he dropped from his elbows to his chest, turning his face so he could breathe.  His cheek was pressed hard enough to the couch to make his lips pout out.  Peter smirked, looking down at how Stiles’ lipstick was already smudged at the corner.  He did so love to ruin his Princess’ perfectly painted face.  “There we go.”

Moving slowly, but deliberately, Peter ran his palm up Stiles' leg, relishing in the feeling of the stockings under his hands.  He moved further, toying with the clips that held Stiles' thigh highs to his garter belt, and up over his exposed ass cheeks.  Stiles bit back a whimper.  It had been far too long since he'd felt his Daddy's hands on him, those familiar calluses burning like fire on his skin.  

Peter flipped his skirt up, flitting over the silk lining before settling his palms on Stiles' pert cheeks.  He massaged them for a moment, warming his hands with Stiles' fever-warm flesh.  Inhaling deeply, Peter's nose twitched.  There was a faint hint of something on Stiles' skin, overlaid with several other scents.  His lips curled.  So that had been Stiles' plan all along, had it?  Cover up the real crime with something flashy and hope Peter wouldn't notice?  

Now Peter was _really_ dying to teach his Princess a lesson.  He was tempted to make his knowledge known, to get Stiles begging for forgiveness before the trial had even begun, but that would only lead to short-term satisfaction.  

No.  Peter had a better idea.  

He wanted to make Stiles wait for it, to drag it out as long as possible, even lure Stiles into a false sense of security before throwing the book at him.  If there was one lesson Stiles knew backward and forward, it was that the punishment always fit the crime.

Undoing the clips, Peter detached Stiles’ belt from his stockings, laying the straps carefully aside so they didn’t interfere with his movements.  He ran his thumbs under the lace edge of Stiles' cheekies.  A shiver ran through Stiles' body, and Peter could feel it, even with just the pads of his fingers.  "Tell me," Peter prompted, confident that Stiles knew the rules of his punishment.  

"Your credit card is only for emergencies.  I used it to shop while you were away, and that was against the rules," Stiles recited, choosing his words carefully, wanting to make sure he had laid out every detail of his transgression.  "We are only to go shopping together, and only where you say."

"And?" Peter asked, rubbing his thumbs back and forth over the perfect curve of Stiles' ass, edging closer and closer to the crease where the lace hid his prize.  

Stiles hesitated, body going tight with fear.  He didn't know what else.  Peter hadn't made any comment about his scent, and Stiles wasn't about to give up that information voluntarily.  What else was there?  He was missing something, and he wracked his brain for the answer as Peter continued to patiently massage his thumbs over the curve of his ass, lifting and separating his cheeks in a repetitive motion.  It was probably meant to be soothing, but all it did was amp up Stiles' heart rate.  

"I..." he began, still searching for the right answer.  Peter made a light humming noise, encouraging him to keep talking.  "I..." It was getting harder and harder to think.  The more Peter touched him, the more Stiles' thoughts started to drift.  He needed Daddy to start touching him, so he needed to answer the question.  

"I've already told you," Peter said, an upward lilt to his tone that told Stiles it was the only hint he was going to get.  

Stiles thought back.  They had barely spoken before he'd had to lay himself over Daddy's lap.  The only topic had been the jewelry.  That had to be it.  What had Daddy said about the jewelry?

"I deserve diamonds," Stiles said slowly, panting into the couch cushion.  Daddy hummed again, letting him know he was on the right track.  "And you have exquisite tastes."

"Go on," Daddy purred, liking the sound of that.  He unbuttoned his shirt cuffs and rolled up his sleeves in even, precise folds.  

"So only you should pick out my jewelry," Stiles inferred, trying to find the right words that would allow Daddy to let him stop talking and start feeling.  "Because you know what's best."

"That's right, darling," Daddy said, praise apparent in his tone.  "Now it's time to begin.  Tell me your word," he prompted again, letting Stiles complete their pre-punishment routine.

"Tchaikovsky," Stiles recited, letting out a long breath, steeling himself for what was to come next.  

"Very good," Daddy replied, back to massaging Stiles' cheeks, more than ready to see them flush under his hands.  "How many crystals are on that tacky little chain around your neck, Princess?" he asked, and Stiles immediately knew where the question led.

He was tempted to lie, but that would only double the discipline.  "Thirty-one," Stiles said honestly, already wincing.  He usually didn't get more than twenty strokes at a time, but seeing as he had flagrantly disobeyed, Stiles figured he deserved whatever he got.

"Thirty-one it is then," Daddy said with a sigh, like he was almost sorry to levy such a lengthy penalty.  It was certainly going to cut into their dinner time.  "Count for me."

Stiles barely had time to comprehend the order before Daddy's hand came down, swift and harsh on his skin.  The sting took his breath away.  "One," he managed to squeak out, and then exhaled slowly through pursed lips as the sting bled into heat.  

The next stroke was even harder, on the other cheek, Daddy did like to keep things even.  "Two," he said, squeezing his eyes shut.  Daddy was always careful, never broke the skin, never did any lasting damage, but that didn't make it hurt any less.  It was supposed to hurt, to linger for a few days, making it hard to sit, and even harder to enjoy any sex that came after, which always rubbed at his raw skin no matter what the position.

Daddy rubbed at his cheeks, helping to even out the heat that burned down deep into his muscles.  The next few strokes came even faster, one after the other.  Stiles could barely catch a breath in between counting.  "Ten," he whined, hoping Daddy would give him a minute's respite before continuing on.  His body was tight, tensing against Daddy's lap every time the pain bit into him.  

"That's right, Princess," Daddy cooed, massaging him, calluses feeling like scratching nails against his raw skin.  "You're doing so well," he praised.  Stiles could hear the smile in his voice.  The praise was genuine.  Stiles knew that, and the warm words rushed through him like fire in his veins.  

He could feel himself start to plump up against Daddy's thigh.  It wasn't supposed to feel good, Stiles knew that, too, but he couldn't help his reaction.  Tight as a wire, he whined into the cushion, sweat beading above his lip, making his lipstick bleed even more.  

Pushing down on his lower back, Daddy ground Stiles' erection into his thigh.  Lace scraped against his tender flesh.  Stiles hissed through his teeth, wishing, not for the first time, that Daddy would let him take his panties off before his spankings.  

"Naughty girl," Daddy tsked, clucking his tongue.  "I guess I'm not getting my message across."  It was half in jest, Stiles thought.  Daddy liked when he got hard when he was disciplined.  It made Daddy hard too, but he wasn't supposed to know that.  Stiles was supposed to ignore Daddy’s erection.  If he pushed into it on purpose, he would be punished again, even more severely.  Even so, Stiles' mouth watered as he pictured it, his Daddy's cock getting fat and wet in his pants.  

_Smack._

Stiles gasped, not expecting the stroke.  It was hard, twice as hard as before, the pain of it making his eyes tear up.  The hits came so close together that Stiles couldn’t even get the words out at all.  He breathed through the pain, saliva pooling in his open mouth.  

"I can't hear you," Daddy sing-songed, pausing his barrage long enough for Stiles to get his bearings.  

"Sev--seventeen?" Stiles said, swallowing hard, throat tight where it was pushed into the couch, all his body weight pressing down on his chest.  His nipples tugged painfully as the weight of the crystals caught on the cushions, pinching and pulling at his hard nubs.

"Are you asking me or telling me?" Daddy asked, and Stiles knew he was fucked.  He had lost count.  How could he have been so stupid?  Good girls didn't get lost thinking about their Daddy's dick against their thigh.  Good girls kept count and said each number loud and proud, grateful for what they were given.  

"Telling you," Stiles guessed, hoping beyond hope that he was right.  

"Good girl," Daddy said, humming low in his throat again.  "But don't let me see you lose track again.  You count each stroke until we're through or it'll be ten more."

"Yes, Daddy," Stiles responded, panting again.  The burn wasn't fading as they spoke, it was spreading like the tide, lapping against his skin, the heat running up over his lower back.

"Now where were we?" he mused, wanting Stiles to give him the go-ahead to carry on.

"Eighteen," Stiles replied softly, letting his eyes fall closed, preparing himself for the pain to grow.  

_Smack._

"Eighteen," Stiles said again, not willing to risk his omission qualifying as an error.

"That's perfect, darling," Daddy cooed, using his thumbs to inch into Stiles' tight crease and separate the globes of his ass.  He relished in the contrast of the hidden pink skin next to the bright red of Stiles' battered cheeks.  "Look at you," he said, licking his lips, his hunger going unnoticed by Stiles, who was still squeezing his eyes shut.  "All hot and red for me, but still pink, right here in your pretty place," he purred, barely ghosting over his baby girl's hole.

Stiles inhaled sharply and held his breath.  The sensation was starkly different from the pain that was still licking up his spine.  His nerves didn't know what to do with it.  Pulling his body away instinctively, Stiles clenched his hole shut, pulling a dark chuckle out of Daddy's throat.  Every neuron in his body was telling him to shy away from the hand that was causing his agony.

_Smack.  Smack._

"Nineteen, twenty," Stiles breathed out, barely audible.  Those last two strikes were brutal, and Stiles was sure he could feel his capillaries bursting, bringing blue and purple blotches onto his sensitive skin.  The pain was so acute, he started to cry.  Hot, salty tears leaked out of the corners of his eyes, running down his perfectly painted cheeks to mingle with the saliva seeping out of his mouth.  He could taste it, bitter like nettles on his tongue.

"There you go," Daddy praised him, giving a few soothing strokes to the back of Stiles' thighs, still half covered by his stockings.  "Just let it go.  You'll feel so much better if you let it out."

Stiles sniffled.  He hated crying.  The humiliation rushed through him, a flush coloring his chest and throat, spreading upward where it showed through the tear streaks in his foundation.  He couldn't stop it, the sobs overwhelmed him, ripping out of his throat without his permission.  Turning his face further into the couch cushion, Stiles muffled the embarrassing sounds until they were more like controlled whimpers.

"Ten more, Princess," Daddy said, in what was meant to be an encouraging tone.  Ten more was still one-third left.  Stiles wasn't stupid, he could do the math.  He knew the last ten strokes would be the worst, building on top of an already agonizing foundation.  He breathed out through pursed lips like a runner in the last mile of their marathon, heavy and rhythmic and determined.  "You've just got to give me ten more."

Stiles huffed out a humorless laugh.  Was that really what Daddy thought?  That his punishments were a gift, wrapped especially for him?  It made a certain kind of sense, Daddy did like to see his skin flush, to see him break into bits so Daddy could put the pieces back together again.  Perhaps it _was_ a gift.  Stiles was too exhausted to follow his train of thought to the end properly.  All he could think of was how much he hurt.

Daddy's hand came down, swift and precise against the exposed portion of Stiles' thigh.  

"Twenty-one," Stiles yelped, not expecting the change.  It was almost a relief.  While more sensitive, at least that skin wasn't already burning.  He counted all the way up to twenty-five as Daddy laid into his thighs, alternating and then smacking both at once with enough force to make the tears start again.

"Can you stand up for me, Princess?" Daddy asked, but Stiles didn't hear anything.  The electric buzzing feeling that was running through his body had finally reached his ears.  Everything felt fuzzy and muted.  If he hadn’t felt his chest heaving, Stiles was sure he wouldn't even have known he was still crying.  

Daddy leaned to the side and gripped Stiles’ face around the chin, turning it away from the cushion.  The angle was uncomfortable, but it barely registered amongst the deluge of sensation radiating everywhere else on Stiles' body.  "I need you to get up for me, baby girl," Daddy said again, rubbing at his filthy cheek with one thumb.  

Slowly, Stiles rose to his knees, wincing when his skirt fell back down to rub against his raw skin and the clips of his belt smacked against his thighs.  Opening his eyes, he looked over at his Daddy, who was giving him a small smile.  He could feel the moisture dripping down his face to pool against his collarbone.  It trailed down his chest, bringing Stiles' attention to the way his nipples also ached, sore from the weight of the crystals tugging down on his now painful piercings.  Suddenly, the necklace wasn't as beautiful as it had been when he had clipped it on that evening.  Daddy had been right, as usual.  He always knew what was best for his Princess.

"You need to be on your feet for this next part," Daddy said, standing up and holding out a hand for Stiles to take.  He took a minute to wipe the moisture from his face, getting his breath back even as he saw the black smudges all over his palms, evidence of his shame.  "Just a few more to go," he added when tears started dripping from Stiles' eyes again.  

Sniffing, Stiles put one pump down on the floor, and let Daddy balance him as he unfolded his long legs and got to his feet.  He wiped at his face again, this time attempting to clear the spit from his chin.  

"Don't be sad, darling," Daddy said, cupping Stiles' cheeks in his broad palms and wiping the smudges of eyeliner and mascara from under his eyes.  It only made things worse.  Color smeared across every inch of Stiles' face, especially his mouth where the lipstick had spread.  It covered the mole near the corner of his mouth and the space between the sides of his cupid’s bow.  “You’re gorgeous.  Such a pretty girl.”

Daddy smirked.  Stiles looked wrecked, strung out and gorgeous, and he had been the one to do it.  Pride and lust surged through his body simultaneously as he looked down and saw the front of Stiles' skirt rising, herringbone fabric caught on the tip of his baby girl's still-present erection.  "Panties off, shoulders on the couch," he ordered, watching Stiles lick his now dry and cracking lips before moving to comply.  

Stiles did as he was told, dropping Daddy's hand and turning to face the couch.  He reached under his skirt and hooked his fingers into the lace, bending and wriggling until he could pull his panties free from his crack.  Lifting them over his little cocklet was excruciating.  The lace pulled against his ass as he stretched the panties forward.  Wincing as he worked, Stiles inched them over the curve of his ass until they dropped freely to the floor.  

He bent at the waist, feeling the strain in his hamstrings as he dropped his shoulders to the cushion, hands supporting his weight, keeping his face from smearing mascara on the fabric.  The clamps of his garter belt now touched bare skin, gravity pulling them against his burning flesh.

"Legs straight," Daddy reminded him, tapping at the back of his stockings with one finger until he straightened his knees and extended his legs, the height of his heels causing his muscles to stretch painfully.  "That's it.  Now spread yourself for me like a good little princess."  Stiles separated his legs, which let up on his aching thighs a bit, but that wasn't what Daddy wanted.

"You know that's not what I meant," he said sternly, stepping forward to flip up Stiles' skirt once more.  

He hissed, the pain rushing up his spine again as his Daddy gripped his ass tightly, fingers digging into the skin.  Daddy squeezed down hard, then released him, but the burn still lingered as if Daddy's fingerprints had melted into his skin.

Closing his eyes and letting out a breath through his nose, Stiles removed his hands from the couch.  Dropping his full weight onto his chest and shoulders, he grabbed his own ass cheeks and pulled them apart, the straps of his garter belt still tapping his skin.

"Now that just won't do," Daddy said, huffing in exasperation.  "If I catch one of these," he said, tugging on one of the straps, "you could get seriously hurt.  Take it off, darling."

Anxious to get his punishment over with, Stiles sighed at the delay, but straightened up so he could undo the line of hooks on the back of his belt.  He caught it in one hand and tossed it to the side of the couch, lips twisting in displeasure as his carefully chosen outfit was well and truly ruined.  Bending over again, Stiles resumed his position, letting out a whimper when he pressed his own fingertips into his abused flesh.  

"I'm going to need a better look than that," Daddy chided, tapping one finger against Stiles’ hole.  "Wider."

Stiles complied, getting a better handful of his ass and pulling tight, giving his Daddy enough room to smack his cheeks without catching his fingers.  

"That's perfect, Princess," Daddy cooed.  "I can see your pretty place now.  You're doing so well.  Just a few left."

Stiles huffed.  He swore this was the longest punishment he'd ever endured.  Not only was it more than twenty strokes, but it included a position change.  He prayed for Daddy to get on with it.  The new position caused the crystals to dangle freely, pulling sharply at his piercings.  Stiles usually liked when Daddy played with his nipples, but the passive effects of gravity were unwelcome and painful.  

"Tell me your word, baby girl," Daddy said, and Stiles froze.  If Daddy wanted to hear his word again, the real suffering had yet to begin.  

"Tchaikovsky," Stiles whimpered, already terrified.  

"That's right," Daddy said softly, trying to calm Stiles' racing heart.  As harsh a disciplinarian as he was, causing a panic attack was never his intention.  "Just a little more, darling.  You're so close now.  Count for me."

_Smack._

Stiles practically screamed, "twenty-six!"  Daddy's palm laid into him so fast he could almost hear the whoosh of the air displacement.  The crack reverberated through his body, and he lost his grip on his ass.  Daddy had never hit him this hard before.  Stiles tried to breathe through the pain, but his exhales came out in wet sobs.

"Ahh!" he screamed again, noise ripping from his throat as Daddy spanked him again, just as hard, the new position giving the wolf better mobility and enough space to really wind up.  "Twenty-seven!" he cried, face wet with tears once more.  Arms flopping to his sides, Stiles squirmed away, but Daddy's hand held him firmly in place.

_Smack.  Smack._

The pain was unbelievable, and Stiles thought fleetingly of using his word, but he refrained.  He'd disobeyed, and he was so close to the end.  He could take it, he knew he could.  He would take it all and make his Daddy proud.

"Twenty-eight, twenty-nine," he sobbed, crying in earnest now, wet and ugly.  Shaking his head _no_ against the couch cushion, Stiles steeled himself, biting his lip and tensing his body taut as Daddy spanked him once more.  

When the stroke landed, his teeth broke skin, and the bright tang of copper hit his tongue, mingling with the already bitter tears.  "Thirty!" he screamed, agony ripping through his body. One more.  He could do one more, he had to.  He wanted Daddy to be proud, to know that he could take whatever he was given.  He _needed_ Daddy to know he had fully learned his lesson.

"Spread yourself," Daddy said, voice sounding to Stiles as if it came from miles away.  "Let me see that pretty place."

Sobbing, Stiles complied, collecting his faculties as he urged his arms to move.  He hissed through his teeth as his fingers bit into his flesh once more.  

Taking pity on him, Daddy reached between his legs and pulled on his baby cocklet.  Stiles had forgotten he was hard.  All of his focus had narrowed down to the pain he was in.  His ass was on fire and his nipples felt like they were tearing, ripping as the blasted crystals swung.  

"Look at that," Daddy purred, tugging on his erection, stroking it until he could breathe through the pain and focus on the twisted pleasure of the rough palm on his cocklet.  "Look how hard your little clitty is."  Daddy's hand was hot and tight, squeezing him as he pulled rhythmically, faster and faster until Stiles was right on the brink.  But as soon as the sensation hit him, it was gone, ebbing like the tide as Daddy took his hand away.

"Listen to me very carefully, Princess," Daddy hissed into his ear.  "I do not give you permission to come.  You have one more stroke, and if you come on my couch cushions, I will be very, very disappointed in you."

Stiles nodded, squeezing his eyes closed as tight as they would go, face scrunched up in a grimace.  Of course, Daddy wasn't going to make it easy for him.  He was right there on the edge, only held back by the pain that radiated out over every inch of his body.  Flexing his fingers, Stiles pulled his cheeks apart as far as he could, feeling his hole twitch in anticipation.  

"Don't move," Daddy said, pulling away again.  "Not a muscle, not an inch."

Stiles sucked his cut lip into his mouth and held on, inhaling the scattered tears as he breathed in through his nose, barely getting any air.

Daddy's hand came down on his pretty place with such force, Stiles vision went black, bright white splotches bursting before his eyes.  He screamed, loud and long as he squeezed his body tight, fighting off his orgasm, wishing he could clamp his hand down on his clit to be sure… and then it was over.  Stiles panted through his nose several times, short little huffs of air as he came back down, body uncoiling.  "Thirty-one," he moaned, releasing his lip, swallowing the film of blood that had coated his tongue.  

"So perfect for me," Daddy cooed, running a hand over his hair, petting him as his muscles unwound.  "My perfect baby girl," he praised, massaging at Stiles' scalp.  

Finally able to relax, Stiles' body collapsed as he fell to his knees, the toes of his pumps slipping on the rug.  He crumpled, crying out when his ass hit the back of his shoes.  Stiles tried to pull himself back up on the couch, but his muscles were like jelly.   He faltered and fell again.   

Daddy went to the floor beside him and wrapped him up in strong arms.  “Shh, it’s alright.  It’s all over.  You did so well, taking all of that for Daddy.”  Stiles curled into his body, shoving his face into Daddy’s throat, whimpering as his skirt rubbed against his raw, bruised skin.  “Just let it all out, honey.  That’s it.  Deep breaths,” Daddy coached, gently pulling him out of his trance.

Strong fingers massaged the back of his head, pressing snot and ruined makeup all over Peter’s dress shirt.  He panted against Peter’s throat, eyelashes sticking together every time he blinked.  Several minutes passed as Peter scratched at his scalp, letting him cry himself out, whispering encouragements into his hair.  

“How are you feeling?” Peter asked, using one hand to rub comforting circles on Stiles’ upper back.  

“Hungry,” Stiles replied, chuckling wetly into Peter’s now damp shirt.  “Think it can be dinner time now?”

“Not quite,” Peter said, rubbing his cheek against the top of Stiles’ head.  “That was your punishment for using my credit card, but I think we both know that that wasn’t the real crime.”

Stiles froze.  Peter’s tone was light and conversational, but Stiles knew he was in even bigger trouble than before.  He had been a fool, thinking the wolf wouldn’t have been able to sniff out his mistake.  

“ _Wishful thinking to begin, and in the end despair_ ,” was how the saying went.  The words seemed to describe Stiles’ predicament perfectly.  Surely Peter didn’t mean to spank him again, which meant… no.  Stiles felt tears prickle at the corners of his eyes again, but he fought against them.

“Would you like to tell me what the real crime was, darling?” Peter asked, pulling away from Stiles’ body until the man was forced to meet his eyes.  “Tell me now, and I’ll be lenient,” he said sharply, telling Stiles he’d better start talking or there’d be hell to pay.

“I…” Stiles faltered, both embarrassed and fearful.  “I came while you were away,” he said, eyes downcast.

“Now tell me truthfully,” Peter said, hooking a finger under his chin.  “Were you deliberately disobeying me, or did you come in your sleep?  I won’t punish you for what your body does on its own, but if you feel like you can break as many rules as you want while I’m away on business, we’re going to have to have a serious conversation about respect.”

“I broke the rules,” Stiles said, meeting Peter’s gaze, honest and open.  “I thought you were coming home and I was getting myself ready for you, but I got too excited,” he carried on, gulping audibly.  “And I came in the shower.”

“And then you tried to cover it up,” Peter added, raising his eyebrows

“Yes, Daddy,” Stiles replied.

“And then you lied about it,” Peter said finally, setting his jaw and giving Stiles a stern look.  

“Yes, Daddy,” Stiles agreed, knowing he should have revealed his transgression earlier when Daddy had asked why he was being punished.  He might have saved himself a harsh bout of discipline.  “I’m sorry.  It won’t happen again.”

“And how long was I gone?” Peter asked, voice rising in pitch at the end of the question, leading Stiles to the answer.

“A week,” Stiles said, sighing heavily, wondering what kind of discipline Peter would come up with.  There were only so many things that could be done for a full week, but he knew Peter could be creative when he wanted to be.

“Chastity for one week then,” Peter said, shaking his head like it was going to be as much of a trial for him as it would be for Stiles.  Dropping his eyes again, Stiles slumped his shoulders, heartbroken.  He craved Peter’s touch after so long apart, and knew another full week would nearly kill him.  Peter drew him in again, wrapping Stiles up in his arms and rubbing his back, whispering kind susurrations into his ear.  

He shuddered out a deep breath, steeling himself to do something painful, but necessary.  

“Three weeks,” Stiles said, eyes prickling with tears again.  

He was dying for Peter’s touch after being alone for so long in their cold, modern apartment, but he had disobeyed and deserved to be disciplined properly.  Stiles knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that he would feel worse taking advantage of Peter’s leniency than he would if he suffered longer.  

At least once he was done he would feel free from the guilt and, more importantly, he would have Peter’s respect.  “The punishment is three times the crime, you know the rules,” he reminded Peter, lips twisting into a sad smile.  Of course, Peter knew the rules, he was the one that made them.

“I was trying to go easy on you,” Peter said into his hair, still rubbing circles on his back, scratching at his shoulders soothingly, drawing Stiles’ attention away from the pain that was still burning his backside.  “You’ve had enough discipline for one day.”

“No,” Stiles argued again, angry, frustrated tears leaking out of his eyes.  It killed him to do it, but he stood firm.  “Three weeks.  I deserve it.  I broke the rules, and I lied, and I disrespected you.”

“How about two weeks?” Peter negotiated.  Stiles’ words of penance were tugging at his heartstrings.  Two weeks was a long enough stretch to go without an orgasm, at least for Stiles.  Peter planned on having as many as he could.  He figured it would only be a day or two of rest and healing before Stiles was climbing into his lap, begging to be fucked, even if he couldn’t get hard himself.  

The man really did have a beautiful submissive streak.  Stiles’ willingness to please and eagerness to serve made him the perfect partner.  Peter loved to break him.  He had an affinity for the sight of Stiles’ mascara running down his cheeks, the ruined, wrecked look, but he didn’t want to be unnecessarily cruel.  There was a delicate balance to his dominance, and while he toed right up to the line, he never crossed it.  Once trust is lost, it’s lost forever.

“Three,” Stiles whimpered into his neck, kitten weak, but determined.  

“Oh alright,” Peter said, squeezing him even tighter into his body.  “If you insist.  Three weeks in your cage.”

Stiles nodded mutely, sniffling again.  He could already feel a weight being lifted off his mind.

“But I get to milk you once a week,” Peter said, not wanting Stiles to go so long without any pleasure at all.  It was really more of a treat for Peter than it was for Stiles, taking him right to the brink and then leaving him with a ruined orgasm.  Watching the fluid leak out the end of Stiles' trapped dick was one of Peter's favorite things in the world.  

"Deal," Stiles said, pulling back to give Peter a weak smile.  Angling his face, Peter gave Stiles a full kiss on the lips, their first of the night.  "Will you put it on me?" he asked, when Peter released his mouth.

"I think you and I both know that you'd never make it inside your cage if I was the one touching you," Peter purred against his lips, sly and predatory.  He kissed Stiles again, hot and hard, and then pulled back, leaving the man wet-lipped and gasping, pink streaks still covering parts of his face.  "Why don't you go cool off for a minute and lock yourself up for me?  Then I'll see what I can do to salvage that beautiful dinner you made."

"Yes, Daddy," Stiles agreed, taking a deep breath to steel himself before struggling to his feet.  He felt like a baby giraffe, all wobbly-legged and too tall on his heels, letting out a pained yelp when he finally got his ass off the floor.  Peter reached out for him again, cupping his face with both hands, dipping Stiles' head down, and pressing a lingering kiss to his forehead.   

"I love you," Peter said, pecking Stiles on the tip of his upturned nose.  "My perfect little Princess," he added, squeezing Stiles' hand.

"I love you too, Daddy," Stiles replied, officially ending their scene.  Dropping Peter's hand, he turned toward the bedroom and walked away, limping slightly.  He stopped midway and stepped out of his heels, bending over to pick them up and continue his slow march to the bedroom.  Peter watched him leave, licking his lips when Stiles’ ruined ass jiggled with each step.

Stripping off his shirt and unzipping his skirt, Stiles headed for the bathroom to check the mirror.  He looked ghastly; black streaks running from his raccoon eyes, lipstick smeared all over the lower portion of his face, red, swollen nipples protesting the weight that still hung from them.  

Wincing, Stiles unclipped the ends of the necklace from his piercings and slipped the chain over his head.  He balled the offending accessory up in his fist and chucked it into the sink, crystals tinkling like glass against the porcelain.  

Looking down, Stiles saw that his penis was blessedly limp, already shrunk down to a small handful.  Turning to the toilet, he availed himself of the facilities and washed his hands thoroughly before rummaging about under the sink until he found his cage and the bottle of lube.  

Fitting his balls through the metal was always difficult, and he spent a few minutes lubing himself up, pulling and tugging until he was properly situated.  Rubbing a bit of lube on the head, careful not to excite himself, Stiles worked the metal cage up his length, lips twisting in concentration as he worked.  This part was easier when Peter did it, but Stiles had been told to do it himself, and after all the trouble he had just got in, he wasn’t about to ask for help.  Wiping his hand on a towel, Stiles grabbed the tumbler lock and slid it home, twisting the key with a sad gesture of finality.  

Three weeks.  That would make it his second longest stretch of chastity ever.  It wasn’t one of Peter’s favorite activities.  The wolf was much happier when he was able to tease and pleasure Stiles freely, but the cage worked well as a chastisement.  Stiles hated it.  It was heavy and made it difficult to pee, which is why it was only saved for truly egregious errors.  Unfortunately, it had been long enough since he’d last worn it that the deterrent had lost its effect, but Stiles wasn’t likely to forget this time, not after the spanking and three weeks of denial.  

Stiles turned around to assess the damage.  His ass was bright red with darker red blotches where his bruises were forming.  The red stripes trailed down his thighs as well, all the way to the tops of his stockings.  Bending over, he hooked a glittery fingernail into the band of one thigh high and gingerly peeled it down, careful not to make any runs.  He did the same with the other leg and then filled Peter’s sink with hot, soapy water and massaged the fabric, setting it to soak.  The fabric swirled around with the bubbles, a stark contrast to the pile of tangled metal and crystal in his own sink.  He opened the medicine cabinet and swallowed two Aleve dry.

Exhaling slowly, Stiles picked up the small key from the counter, pulled the package of makeup wipes out of the cabinet, and left the bathroom.  He stopped by the dresser, grabbing one of Peter's soft, stretched out V-necks and slipping it over his head.  It just barely covered his ass, but that was intentional.  He wanted Peter to see his cage peeking out underneath the fabric, to see how red his beaten ass was.  Peter needed to be able to see that Stiles had obeyed his instructions to the letter.

On bare feet, Stiles padded back out to the living room, which was empty.  Peter was clanging around in the kitchen, probably making a mess of it.  To Stiles’ surprise, his boyfriend turned around holding a platter with elegantly plated crostini, crisp slices of bread topped with what smelled like a horseradish sauce and thin, almost see-through slices of the rare prime rib.  Stiles’ mouth watered.

“Oh, darling,” Peter said, face falling.  He put the tray down and rushed to Stiles’ side, cupping his face and pulling him in for a kiss.  “Let me do that,” he said, taking the wipes out of Stiles’ hand and leading him over to the couch.  “Do you want to sit?” he asked, not sure what would make Stiles the most comfortable.  He handed Peter the key and got a short nod in response before Peter slipped it into his pocket.

“I’ll kneel here for now,” Stiles replied, keeping his upper body straight as he climbed on the couch, careful to keep pressure off his sore ass.  He closed his eyes, bowed his head, and waited, hands folded lightly in his lap, pose beautifully submissive.  Peter stared down at him in wonder before kneeling on the couch next to him.  He pulled a wipe from the package and warmed it in his hands for a moment before slowly, methodically wiping the kohl from Stiles’ eyelids.

Several minutes passed as Peter gently cleaned his lover’s face, smiling when Stiles pushed into his touch.   He listened to the thumping of Stiles’ heart, steady enough he could set his watch to it now that he was calm and content.  “You are so beautiful,” Peter murmured, close enough to Stiles’ face that the man could feel his breath.  “You were perfect for me today.  Strong and repentant.  I don’t deserve you.”

“You really don’t,” Stiles said, smirking, even with his eyes still closed.  Peter couldn’t help but laugh, surging forward to kiss the smug look off of his boyfriend’s face.  “I’m ready to be pampered now,” Stiles teased, eyes glinting with mischief when he opened them.  

“It’d be my pleasure,” Peter purred, gathering up the soiled wipes and heading for the kitchen.  He returned with a bottle of water, their wine glasses, and the platter of food, a bowl of reheated mashed potatoes balanced on his forearm.  Settling back down on the couch, Peter handed Stiles the water and reached for the bowl, scooping up a spoonful of potatoes and holding it out.

Stiles drained the bottle and then opened his mouth to let Peter feed him, little spoonfuls of whipped potatoes interspersed with sips of wine.  When it came to the meat, Peter fed him by hand, holding each piece of bread up to Stiles’ mouth and letting him bite, catching the crumbs with his other hand cupped underneath Stiles’ chin.  

Stiles moaned in pleasure, body relaxing as the creamy horseradish sauce burst across his taste buds.  He gasped when he forgot himself and sat back on his heels, pain flaring brightly.  “Just a few more bites and I’ll take care of that for you.  Does that sound good, sweetheart?”

Stiles nodded, opening his mouth when Peter bypassed the toast, picking the meat off and placing it on Stiles’ tongue.  The juice dripped down his fingers, and Stiles lapped at them, chasing the liquid across Peter’s skin.  A pleased smirk on his face, Peter repeated the action several more times, feeding Stiles the thin slices of perfectly cooked beef.   

When the last piece was gone, Peter cleared up and ducked into the bathroom.  Stiles could hear him washing his hands for several minutes.  He returned with Stiles’ jar of vitamin E lotion, a bottle of saline solution, and some cotton balls.  Sitting back down on the couch, Peter took out the saline first, wetting a few cotton balls.  “Let me take care of those for you, precious,” Peter said, gesturing toward Stiles’ chest.

Nodding, Stiles moved forward on his knees, getting close enough for Peter to clean his piercings with soft dabs of cotton.  He blew on the wet flesh, smiling when a shiver ran through Stiles’ body.  Once they were dry, Peter rubbed a bit of the lotion around Stiles’ areolas, looking to his lover’s face for any sign of discomfort.  “Do they hurt?”

“Yeah,” Stiles said easily, biting his bottom lip.  “But that’s my fault, not yours.”

“True,” Peter agreed, putting more lotion on his hands.  “But that doesn’t mean I want you to be in pain.”

“They’re fine, it’s my ass that’s the problem,” Stiles said, giving Peter a playful pout.  

“Lie down on your stomach, and I’ll rub this in,” he offered, waiting for Stiles to stretch out across the length of the couch before kneeling on the floor.  Stiles' eyebrows crept up toward his hairline.  It wasn’t often Peter was the one on his knees, and Stiles smirked at the sight.

“Don’t get used to it,” Peter grumbled, rubbing his hands together before spreading the lotion on Stiles’ fever-hot ass cheeks.  “Is that alright?” he asked, looking to Stiles for his reaction again.

“It’s perfect,” Stiles said, pillowing his head on his arms and letting out a deep breath.  

Peter worked him over for at least twenty minutes, massaging and stroking, going back for more lotion to work on his thighs.  It was bliss, and Stiles felt contentment seep into his pores along with the lotion.  

Locked away as he was, Stiles felt a certain sort of peace.  There was nothing sexual about the way Peter touched him, but on a normal day, that wouldn’t have stopped Stiles from getting hard anyway.  As it was now, Stiles could just enjoy the touch, letting all thoughts of arousal and release leave him until all he was left with was comfort and affection.  

It had been a long night, but he wouldn’t have changed a thing.  Peter stroked him diligently, moving up his back and all the way down to his toes, paying special attention to the arches of his feet.  

In the end, Stiles felt like a puddle of goo, and had a satisfied smile on his face.  Peter cleaned up again, did the dishes, changed into his pajamas, and returned to find Stiles soundly asleep.  Huffing quietly at the sight, Peter crept up to the couch and lifted Stiles’ upper body by the shoulders, raising him until there was enough space for Peter to sit down and lay Stiles back down in his lap.  

Groaning softly, Stiles complained at the movement, but settled back in readily, squirming until he was comfortable, face pressed into Peter’s stomach.  With gentle fingers, Peter combed the product out of Stiles’ hair, massaging his scalp as Stiles slept.  He started to stir after an hour and a half, and blinked up blearily at Peter, eyelashes fluttering.  

“Hmm?” Stiles said, slowly waking, pushing his head back into Peter’s hands like a cat.  

“Time for bed, love,” Peter whispered.  Stiles whined, but started to get up.  Moving quickly, Peter swung an arm under Stiles’ knees and lifted him from the couch, carrying him toward the bedroom.  

“‘M not tired…” Stiles muttered, nuzzling his face into Peter’s throat.

“Of course you’re not,” Peter replied, pushing the door open with his foot.  He laid Stiles out on the bed and covered him with the down comforter.  

“W’nna fuck me?” Stiles mumbled, drawing the blanket back to show off his cage.  He spread his legs and wriggled against the bed, apparently too tired to remember how much his ass hurt.  Peter looked over appreciatively, smirking at the sight of his lover, trapped in metal and still asking to be taken.  

“Not tonight, darling,” Peter said, shaking his head fondly before hitting the light and getting in on the other side of the bed.  “You need your rest.”

“Tomorrow?” Stiles asked, letting out a soft sigh as he rolled to his side, cozying up to Peter’s chest.  

“There’s no rush, gorgeous,” Peter replied, tossing the blanket back over Stiles’ bare legs and pressing a kiss to the top of his head.  “We have all the time in the world.”

“Mm’hmm,” Stiles hummed, breath hot against Peter’s clavicle.  “Love you,” he whispered, draping one arm possessively across Peter’s torso.

“And I you,” Peter said softly, closing his eyes as Stiles started to snore.

**Author's Note:**

> Come [tumble](http://aflailureandamasterpiece.tumblr.com/) with me. Happy Holidays to everyone!


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